Part 36 (2/2)

'Oh G.o.d.'

'I don't want him knowing about tests for cocaine. I mean, neither Milo nor Nicholas Loder.'

'You may be sure,' Phil said seriously, 'they won't learn it from me.'

It was the worst dilemma of all, I thought, replacing the receiver.

Was cocaine a stimulant or was it not? The racing authorities didn't think so didn't test for it. If I believed it didn't effect speed then it was all right to sell Dozen Roses to the Ostermeyers. If I thought he wouldn't have got the race at York without help, then it wasn't all right.

Saxony Franklin needed the Ostermeyers' money.

The worst result would be that, if I banked the money and Dozen Roses never won again and Martha and Harley ever found out I knew the horse had been given cocaine, I could say goodbye to any future Gold Cups or Grand Nationals on Datepalm. They wouldn't forgive the unforgivable.

Dozen Roses had seemed to me to run gamely at York and to battle to the end. I was no longer sure. I wondered now if he'd won all his four races s.p.a.ced out, as the orthopod would have described it; as high as a kite.

At the best, if I simply kept quiet, banked the money and rode Dozen Roses to a couple of respectable victories, no one would ever know. Or I could inform the Ostermeyers privately, which would upset them.

There would be precious little point in proving to the world that Dozen Roses had been given cocaine (and of course I could do it by calling for a further a.n.a.lysis of the urine sample taken by the officials at York) because if cocaine weren't a specifically banned substance, neither was it a normal nutrient. Nothing that was not a normal nutrient was supposed to be given to thoroughbreds racing in Britain.

If I disclosed the cocaine, would Dozen Roses be disqualified for his win at York? If he were, would Nicholas Loder lose his licence to train?

If I caused so much trouble, I would be finished in racing. Whistleblowers were regularly fired from their jobs.

My advice to myself seemed to be, take the money, keep quiet, hope for the best.

Coward, I thought. Maybe stupid as well.

My thoughts made me sweat.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

June, her hands full of pretty pink beads from the stockroom, said, 'What do we do about more rhodocrosite?

We're running out and the suppliers in Hong Kong aren't reliable any more. I was reading in a trade magazine that a man in Germany has some of good quality.

What do you think?'

'What would Greville have done?' I asked.

Annette said regretfully, 'He'd have gone to Germany to see. He'd never start buying from a new source without knowing who he was trading with.'

I said to June, 'Make an appointment, say who we are, and book an air ticket.'

They both simultaneously said, 'But . . .' and stopped.

I said mildly, 'You never know whether a horse is going to be a winner until you race it. June's going down to the starting gate.'

June blushed and went away. Annette shook her head doubtfully.

'I wouldn't know rhodocrosite from granite,' I said.

'June does. She knows its price, knows what sells I'll trust that knowledge until she proves me wrong.'

'She's too young to make decisions' Annette objected.

'Decisions are easier when you're young.'

Isn't that the truth, I thought wryly, rehearsing my own words. At June's age I'd been full of certainties At June's age, what would I have done about cocainepositive urine tests? I didn't know. Impossible to go back.

I said I would be off for the day and would see them all in the morning. Dilemmas could be shelved, I thought. The evening was Clarissa's.

Brad, I saw, down in the yard, had been reading the Racing Post which had the same photograph as the Daily Sensation. He pointed to the picture when I eased in beside him, and I nodded.

'That's your head,' he said.

'Mm.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' he said.

I smiled. 'It seems a long time ago.'

He drove to Greville's house and came in with me while I went upstairs and put the baster tube into an envelope and then into a jiffy bag brought from the office for the purpose and addressed it to Phil Urquhart.

To Brad, downstairs again, I said, 'The Euro-Securo couriers' main office is in Oxford Street not very far from the Selfridge Hotel. This is the actual address . . .' I gave it to him. 'Do you think you can find it?'

'Yerss'He was again affronted.

'I phoned them from the office. Ihey're expecting this. You don't need to pay, they're sending the bill. Just get a receipt. OK?'

'Yerss.'

'Then pick up my friend from the Selfridge Hotel and bring her here. She'll phone for you, so leave it switched on.'

'Yerss.'

'Then go home, if you like.'

He gave me a glowering look but-all he said was, 'Same time tomorrow?'

'If you're not bored.'

He gave me a totally unexpected grin. Unnerving, almost, to see that gloom-ridden face break up.

'Best time o' my life,' he said, and departed, leaving me literally gasping.

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